


Carry You

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, John-centric, Kidnapping, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 15:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wakes up handcuffed to a bed, sounds of battle being poured into his ears. Will Sherlock rescue him before he can't escape the past?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carry You

**Author's Note:**

> Because this [art](http://willietheplaidjacket.tumblr.com/post/50280759073/lady-macphisto-thescienceofobsession), by willietheplaidjacket made me wibble.

John woke alone. He tried to sit up, only to find himself handcuffed to a bed, wrists spread wide. Panic rose up in his throat, but he forced it down. Had to think. Hands were cuffed, but feet weren’t. He was still fully dressed. The room was dark; no windows. He closed his eyes, trying to remember what had happened.

There was a row with Sherlock. John stormed out, muttering about getting milk from Tescos that wasn’t contaminated with God knew what. He’d only walked a few blocks when someone jumped him. Then he woke up here.

Eyes open again, John wondered just how long it would take Sherlock to notice he was gone. Sometimes he didn’t seem to notice John for days. Panic threatened again and he swallowed it back down. Even if Sherlock didn’t notice, Mrs. Hudson would.

Tugging on the cuffs made them rattle loudly in the darkness. “Hello? Anyone there?” Silence stretched out, until a low sound started to his right. Turning his head towards it, the sound grew until he recognized the low sound of distant helicopters. “God,” he muttered, turning away.

Helicopters meant injuries, meant up to his elbows in blood, trying to save someone that always looked too young if he glanced at their face. John jerked his hand, making the cuff dig into his wrist. Pain, good. He was here, and this was bad, but this was not over there.

To his right, the sound of gunfire started up, close. John reached for his gun but was stopped by the cuffs. He squeezed his eyes shut again, but that was no help as he tasted the sand in his mouth, felt the dusty wind across his face, the weight of the body armor as he tried to run, help someone else.

Lost in his mind now, John replayed the scenes that haunted his dreams. Dead soldiers. Soldiers coming in that he knew were too far gone, set aside so they could try and save the ones who had a chance. Returning later to find they’d slipped away. Out in the field, watching helplessly as a soldier was hit, falling to the ground already dead.

“I’m sorry,” whimpered John out loud. “I tried. I did my best.”

“Your best?” John jerked and opened his eyes. Someone else was in the room. He turned his head but couldn’t see them. “You are here, alive, in London.”

John took a breath, trying to focus on the here and now. “Who are you?”

“A parent.” Footsteps. “He was my only child.”

Before John could pull away, headphones were placed on his ears. “God,” called John, in fear and terror and his ears were full of the sounds of battle. He missed the war, yes, missed the purpose it gave him. But not all of it, not this. Not the screaming and the dying that filled his ears until there was nothing but the taste and the smell and the sounds of never enough.

Suddenly the headphones were tugged off. A cool hand on his chest. “Please,” begged John, just wanting it to end.

“You’re safe, John.” Sherlock’s voice, warm and familiar and so very much here. Home. Not there. His wrists were freed and Sherlock gathered John into his arms while he started to weep, kissing his forehead gently.

“Did you…?” he asked after a while.

Sherlock shook his head. “You were alone. But this would appear to be a bit of Moriarty’s work.”

“It was a parent,” said John, with quivering voice. “They lost a son. Someone I treated and couldn’t save. Their only child.”

“I will have Mycroft look into it.” Sherlock helped him up and wiped his tears with his thumbs. Standing, John’s knee gave, but Sherlock caught him. He kept an arm around John as he limped out of the room. It was night still. Sherlock got him into a cab.

John reached over and held Sherlock’s hand as they went silently back to Baker Street. Home. Sherlock helped him out of the cab and into the door. John regarded the steps as the door closed behind them, wishing he had his cane. Maybe Sherlock could fetch it for him.

Instead, to his surprise and consternation, Sherlock picked him up in his arms. John protested. “I’m not helpless you know.”

“Far from it.” Sherlock carried him up the stairs, turned, and then up the stairs to his room. John didn’t struggle, just stiffly waited for Sherlock to deign to set him down. He set John in his bed and turned to go.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice was soft, still vulnerable. Sherlock turned back, removed his coat, and climbed into John’s bed. With a sigh, John rested his head on Sherlock’s chest, clinging lightly to him. “Thank you.”

Kissing the top of John’s head, for once Sherlock said nothing. John relaxed into his arms, Sherlock’s heartbeat chasing away the last of the bad memories, for now, at least.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [merindab.tumblr.com.](http://merindab.tumblr.com/)


End file.
